And so the night drew in. They finished their coffee and retired gratefully to their quarters. The purity of the southern air had made them very tired, and all those off watch crashed before 2300, warm in the bunks below with the dark, freezing hell of the South Atlantic rushing by beyond the hull.
Boomer and Bill were awake by 0600, dressed, and up on deck five minutes later. And their disappointment was total. There was thick fog along the choppy water, and Roger was still holding their course, but no one could see anything. Bill noted from the GPS they were about twenty-two miles east-northeast of Rendezvous Island, the big rock that Cook named Bligh’s Cap.
“We passed that a coupla hours ago,” said Bill. “I’m putting us about twenty-three miles due north of Cap d’Estaing. That’s the northern tip of the entire island, the place where Goodwin says the Cuttyhunk headed for shelter fourteen months ago. We should steer south now if we want to have a look…Just hope the fog clears in the next two hours. The wind’s out of the northwest now. How about getting the main back up, and reaching down on starboard.”
“You heard what the man said,” Boomer told Roger. “We’ll come right to 180. I’ll take over as soon as you have the main up. Then you better go get some sleep.”
Two hours later, the GPS put them three miles north of Cap d’Estaing, but the weather was still very murky. Boomer reckoned Kerguelen was under a blanket of fog from one end to the other. Without their radar they could go no closer.
“Steer course 130,” said Bill. “There’s no sense going straight for the headland. We may as well sail down into Choiseul Bay, then if the wind gets up from the west or southwest and blows this crap away, we’ll have a bit of shelter and we’ll be able to see the island. If we haven’t found Cuttyhunk by lunchtime, we’re outta here.”
“Our frigate didn’t find her in three months,” said Boomer. “So we’d better tell the gals not to hold their breath.”
By 1030, Yonder was a mile off the entrance to Baie Blanche, and a northwester was rising. Bill held her on the starboard tack but could have sailed either side, since the wind was dead astern and still only force three. The fog was beginning to thin now, and the sun was not far away. The temperature was only thirty-eight degrees, and it felt very damp and cold on deck.
When the fog finally cleared, it happened swiftly: one moment they were peering through a thinning shroud of tallow-colored mist, the next moment they could see the shoreline of Kerguelen across two thousand yards of bright blue, but freezing, water. The five-hundred-foot rise of Gramont, between the Baies of Blanche and Londres, was still snow capped, and a mile off the port bow they could see the more gentle rise of Howe Island. “We’re not going anywhere near that,” said Bill. “It’s kelp city in there.”
In the distance, in this light, the mainland of Kerguelen looked spectacular, with its great craggy mountains, desolate shoreline, and high remnants of the winter snows. Bill pointed out a jutting rock due north of Gramont Island. “According to my chart, that’s Cox’s Rock,” he said. “That’s where Goodwin found the life buoy from Cuttyhunk.”
While Jo and Laura peered through binoculars, Boomer ordered the sails down and started the engine. “So we can chug around for a bit. I don’t want to leave much sail up — the katabatics round here are supposed to be horrendous, and apparently you don’t see them before they hit you. For Christ’s sake watch the chart and the depth for me, will you, Bill? It would not be perfect if we put this baby on a rock.”
“That’s never been part of my master plan either,” replied the man from the High Plains. “We’re staying in deep water, don’t worry. If I even see a rock within two hundred yards I’m setting a course for Hobart.”
Laura went below to fetch coffee. Jo wanted to drive. Boomer said, “Fine, so long as there’s no speeding, and you listen to Bill, and do exactly what he says.”
“Not sure about that,” said Jo. “Not the way he’s been going on with Mrs. Anderson!”
There was some levity as Jo made a great, lazy circle in the bay and headed slowly north. “There’s kelp beds all the way to starboard,” said Bill. “Stay close to the mainland, where it’s deep and clear.”
Jo slurped her coffee and kept chugging. Laura miraculously produced a plate of hot buttered toast, and the four of them munched contentedly while Roger and Gavin continued to furl the big mainsail and Jeff sorted out the sail wardrobe under the foredeck.
At 1140 Boomer went for’ard to give Jeff a hand and to make sure the storm jib was right on top of the pile should it be required in a hurry.
At 1141 Bill Baldridge saw it. Two hundred yards off their starboard bow, slicing through the water leaving a V-shaped feather on the flat surface was…he could not believe his eyes…no it couldn’t be…a shark’s fin maybe.
“BOOMER!!” Bill yelled at the top of his lungs. The Captain of Columbia thought he’d gone over the side.
He swung around to face the cockpit to see his shipmate pointing out in front of him, still bellowing, “BOOMER!! BOOMER!!” Commander Dunning followed the direction of Bill’s right arm, and what he saw almost took his breath away. “JESUS CHRIST!!” he shouted as they both stared at an utterly unmistakable sight cutting across Choiseul Bay at about five knots, heading southwest.
It was the raised periscope of a submarine — about three feet of it, pushing through the water.
About twenty seconds later it vanished beneath the surface as swiftly as it had arrived. Neither Jo nor Laura had seen anything. But then neither of them were submariners.
In the White House office of the National Security Adviser, Admiral Arnold Morgan was beaming with good spirits.
“Well, well,” he was saying. “So you’re the fabled daughter of Admiral MacLean, the lady who captured this rascal’s heart — and also did us a thousand favors a year and a half ago?”
Laura smiled. “That’s me, Admiral. And I believe I have to thank you for the very mixed blessing of throwing Bill and me together.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the Admiral. “This office is actually just a front for my famous dating service.”
Bill could hardly believe his ears. Arnold Morgan making small talk? Chatting to a lady? “Jeez,” thought Bill. “Politics are turning him human. The President better watch that. The Admiral might lose his edge.”
But the former Lion of Fort Meade was warming to his task. “Laura, I’m delighted to meet you at last. I’m a great admirer of your father’s, have been for many years. And between the three of us in this room, your insights during the Jefferson crisis were invaluable.
“I often wondered what you might look like. You have captivated two thoroughly outstanding Naval officers, after all, and now I know I’d trust their judgment…not just on submarine warfare.”
Laura laughed. “You’re too kind, Admiral. I’m actually very ordinary — at least I was until you sent your inquisitor across the Atlantic. Now I’m just very lucky.”
“So’s he,” chuckled the Admiral, nodding in Bill’s direction. “And I’m very glad you called me. We’re staying here for lunch in one of the private dining rooms. The President and Bob MacPherson both intend to stick their heads round the door to say hello. After that my driver’s going to run you both out to the airport. I can’t wait to hear about your sailing trip with Boomer; it must have been great.”
Bill smiled at him. “I’ll tell you about the journey during lunch. Meanwhile there is something I want to tell you about — it might be significant.”